New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [346]
“I know it’s what he wanted,” she said with a smile. Three thousand miles away from her impressionable son—everything that she could wish for, but that would remain her little secret.
“And Keller says that you put in a good word for him with the man who was recommending him. You never told me you did that. Keller’s so grateful to you.”
“It was nothing. I just happened to meet Mr. Pusey at a party, that’s all.”
“I know you used not to like Keller too much. I guess you must have changed your mind, after he came to dinner.”
“Evidently.”
“I’m so impressed that you could do that. Change your mind, I mean.”
“Well, thank you.”
“I can tell you one thing.”
“What’s that, Charlie?”
“Edmund Keller,” he said, beaming at her, “is now your friend for life.”
1925
Strangely, it was not the death of Anna, nor the war, nor even the bizarre new law—inexplicable to anyone from a wine-producing country—that forbade Americans to consume alcoholic drinks, nor the increasing estrangement of Paolo from his parents that changed the life of Salvatore Caruso’s family. It was his eldest brother Giuseppe and the Long Island Rail Road.
The LIRR was a wonderful thing. A huge and complex amalgamation of railways and trolley lines, some going back nearly a century, the mighty system ran from Pennsylvania, across Manhattan to Long Island. Through Penn Station in Manhattan, and the great junction at Jamaica, Long Island, millions of commuters now flowed. Naturally, the railroad did everything it could to persuade the world of the merits of Long Island as a place to live, from which you could easily get into the big city. And the expanding island railway lines were chiefly built by Italians.
As a result, Italian communities had been settling at numerous places along Long Island’s pleasant south shore.
When America first entered the war, before any conscription lists had been started, Giuseppe Caruso had decided to enlist. His father was not sure it was a good idea, but Giuseppe had told him: “We’re Italians, Papa. Still outsiders. We have to show that Italians are good Americans, like anyone else. And as I’m the oldest son, it should be me.”
Salvatore always remembered the day that his big brother had come back safely, and walked down Mulberry Street in his uniform, getting smiles and congratulations from their neighbors, and even a friendly nod from an Irish policeman who happened to be passing. And perhaps that was the moment when Salvatore truly became American, as he proudly watched his brother who, by his service, had already led the way.
It was soon after his return that Giuseppe had decided to join a group of his comrades-in-arms who were going to work on the Long Island Rail Road. And it was not a year before one of his workmates introduced him to a nice young Italian girl. Her family lived on Long Island, out near Valley Stream, but what really impressed the Carusos was that Giuseppe told them: “Her family have land.”
Not much, to be sure, but you didn’t need a huge farm to grow vegetables. Plenty of other Italians were setting up as small Long Island farmers now. One enterprising family named Broccoli, who grew the vegetable of that name, had contracts to supply some of the finest restaurants in New York.
The girl’s family made a modest living. Better yet, as she had no brothers, Giuseppe and she would take over the farm one day from her parents, in the old-fashioned way. And the Caruso family would be back where it belonged, farming the land.
The wedding was a traditional affair, just like a village wedding back home. Within a year, Giovanni and Concetta Caruso had moved out to Long Island. They couldn’t afford to retire, but Giuseppe had found some easier work for both of them. For the first time in the twenty and more years since she’d come to America, Concetta Caruso looked contented. Maria went with them to Long Island, and soon found work in a local store.
So that just left Salvatore, Angelo and Uncle Luigi in the city.
And Paolo, of course. Not that you ever saw him. A few months after